The scowling face changed subtly. It seemed to grow more human beneath its mask.
Tomlinson took heart. “It’s only a word I want with you, sir.”
“Come in.”
Tomlinson shut the door circumspectly and stood turning his hat in his fingers.
“Well?”
“It ’s the place, sir—I ’m Tomlinson,” he said.“Oh—you—are—Tomlinson—”
The old man shrank a little, as if each word had struck him lightly in the face. Then he raised his head. “I ’ve served the road forty year,” he said, repeating his lesson, “and I’ve never done harm. I’ve worked early and I’ve worked late for ye, and never a word of complaint.”
The president of the road stirred sharply. “The Bridgewater wreck—”
The old man raised his hand. “It’s that I wanted to speak about, Mr. Tetlow.” There was a simple dignity in the words. “I’d been on duty seventeen hour—and ten hour before that—with not a wink of sleep. They run us hard on the hours, sir.”
“The other men stand it—the young men.” The words had a kind of cutting emphasis.